


Dove Keeper

by Sinsrose



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Collars, Control, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Gags, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, M/M, Master/Pet, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Safeword Use, Spanking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2543045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifty Shades of Grey meets Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, expect Bucky really isn't innocent like Anna is, and well Steve he's not exactly an innocent puppy, nor is Hydra. And well lines begin to blur on all ends, and Bucky finds that the desires that he thought to be an itch a burn, a nasty craving turn out to be things that give him a reason to live, and even a reason to fall more in love with a person than he ever dreamed of. Until his past starts coming back to haunt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clockwork often is a ticking that seems to last forever. Time is an essence that drags to long, or lingers too much. The pitter patter of a heartbeat that echoes in a dead silent room. It’s like a loud drum ringing, one that echoes and resonates throughout the room. Often times the simplest things in fate can change the clockwork, cause the echoes and shatters in it that are never realized until the chain of events happens. 

And sometimes, sometimes the echoes create beautiful things or a double life that could never be imagined. One that was never thought of even imagined, and that alone brings the cold chill into the base of the spine. Brings that magic into the touch, the way that the heat travels into the core, which leaves a burning in the wake, the electric craving, the heat that is the restrained but also the acceptance of that searing marring feeling in the bones.   
  
The gasping of breath, the hitched incline of lungs. It’s a wheeze and rush out of the lungs. The moment of waiting, the steady thump of the heartbeat. The slackened beat of the heart, the echo that is what life is. The beating of a war drum that is free and without a purpose for now. Oceanic eyes fluttering open upon them, a groggy look flickering across the eyes. Fingers still at first, body waking and trying to remove itself from a slumber.

The digits moving to brush his hair away from his eyes. Small movements from calloused hands moving to pull a hair tie from his wrist to pull his locks of brown hair away from his eyes and back. The pulling of his hair back is swift and fluid, and he blinks again to awaken more. Body bare but a blanket in his small studio apartment, a decent way of living. The apartment itself is on the third floor of the apartment complex but the floor is all to himself. One bathroom, one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. Basic but enough for him, but most of the living room has been taken and made into a makeshift studio.   
  
There’s an easel and painting canvas’s propped over things. Watercolor stains on the white couch- not that he actual cares. It needed the color anyway, it’s stained with hues of purples, blues and faded pinks. There’s a canvas on the easel, half finished, the inspiration having left him days ago. The background of the board white, and only a faint outline of the subject, he never was really good at starting things. He’s lacked inspiration for months. He’s been taking odd jobs to pay the bills, though he’s also managed to keep a steady job writing for the paper, that’s beside the point. Editing papers can be tiring, and exhausting at times.  
  
None the less he sighs for a moment, blinking into focus now. Body chilled ever so slightly from not running the heat the night before. It’s about mid-October, so the air is chilly enough for that hoodie perched on his chair in the kitchen, but not cold enough for a jacket. Not yet at least for him. The winter’s he’d spent as an exchange student in Russia seem ages ago, but the winters were much much colder there compared the chilly air here. He’s twenty-three still young. Still in the age that there’s exploration and living of your life that needs to be done. A struggling artist that had left his teachings of a school system to find his style one that has paid rather well in the moments he can draw and paint. The paintings are just something almost like a hobby, a stress relief but also so much of him goes into the artwork.  
  
His name scrawled in tiny smudge in the paintings, it’s not really important to him. James Buchanan Barnes, otherwise known to Bucky by his close friends, the ones who cared enough in Russia to come back over here to make a living. His small initials hidden in the bottom corner of his latest drawing, more than often he hides it in the most abnormal of places. None the less though, James stretches with a groggy look in his eyes, and begins to rise from his bed. Hair tied back to at least make himself look decent. Pooling the blanket at the edge of the bed, its event that he had been up last night.   
  
Paint smears evident across the skin, marking the flesh with hues and shades of dark and light color. Across his thighs and hipbones, jutting across the skin almost like bite-marks, an almost eye-catching display of color. He can smell the watercolors, the sharp scent, but it’s not as strong as the lead paints he’d used once with a mask. No, those made his clothes reek for days. James sits upwards, yawning for only a moment before standing. The blanket now at last falling onto the sheets, leaving a clear view if anyone was to walk in, a view of his privates. Most night he sleeps naked, from the intoxication from the night before that is the sliding of fingers across heated skin. That draws the sound and sharp whimpers from his lips, which would be reserved to the ears of lovers.   
  
But he craves much more than a normal lover would ever _give_. Even though he doesn’t look like that type, he looks like someone that is just vanilla that would never touch anything like _that_. James pauses for a moment as he stands. Fingers pulling the lose strands of hair away from his eyes, that aren’t tied up in the hair tie and slowly walks over to dress. It’s evident he’s still tired from the night beforehand that had consisted of painting. He stretches trying to wake more before his fingers grab at fabrics that are reserved more than often for richer clients. People willing to pay him a damn good amount for his work, he has a lot of money saved, he just doesn’t let it show. And suits quite frankly are the one thing that he doesn’t really like to wear to places. And he’s not going to waste any time washing the paint of his legs, no. It’s not like its wet, and it’s not like it’s in places that would be seen by the person he’s interviewing so it’s all good for now. So he can afford to have dried paint on his skin. At least for now. None the less the fabric slides up his skin like silk, fluid and easy as it should be.  
  
Playing the role he’s supposed to be playing, he’s not an artist. He’s a reporter, he’s a journalist. It’s just an interview that he’s headed to, just as simple as that. No strings attached, he’s doing his job as he could be and how he always has intended to do it. None the less though, that doesn’t stop the pause in his throat, the anxious nerves, the way that his breath hitches from his train of thought. The last time he had done something like this. Things had gotten much to complex. But that had been when he had been interviewing the cooperation of Hydra, that had been a few years ago when he had been nineteen, when he was still naïve to certain things. Certain matters and aspects of his life at least. He’d been taught things, shown things that had left a itching under his skin for more, things that others hadn’t wanted exactly. James leaves his apartment dressed and dolled up nicely. He looks far too nice for a street artist, or even someone that made his living most of his days by painting on the streets. His transportation is merely a motorcycle, but it’s kept in good shape mostly.   
  
The winters it spends inside, while he uses the bus system to get around or Natasha gives him rides to places with no charge. None the less though, the ride on the bike is brief, it always is to him. It never seems to last, that rush that he gets, it’s one that always hides under his skin, and it’s a craving he cannot beat. He never has been able to beat it. He exhales a breath in the cold air, he exhales a heavy breath. Stark Industries. A difference between this and Hydra, there would be a difference. There would be no mistakes like last time. He would not object himself to what happened in that place again, he didn’t need things getting complex. As he steps inside the building, he’s greeted by a young women. One with ginger hair and bright eyes and seems to smile talking among other people inside the building.   
  
“Oh you must be Barnes correct? I’ll have to apologize, however because Mr. Stark isn’t in, he’s away on a trip, though he has someone covering him.” The women says to him with a rather polite smile to him. “Top floor, however is the interview you’re doing. There should be no problems even though Mr. Stark isn’t in. Rogers takes care of almost everything when Mr. Stark is on trips like this.” That’s all that James needs to know. That’s all that he needs to hear. Just were to go, and do his interview, it’s easier that way. He mutters a small thank you to the women, and heads up to the upper floors using the elevator. An exhale leaving his lips, a heavy breath following it, and the echo of air through lungs in a quiet room. Okay, breathe. Breathe. I can do this. I’ve been doing this for four years.  
  
He’s not Alexander Pierce. He’s not the same as Hydra scumbags. Everything will be fine. I’m just nervous because I’m overreacting. James has to pause when he pushes open the clear glass doors on the upper floor of the penthouse, a rush of breath escaping him again. The man behind the desk looks upwards, attention focused on the person that had just entered. James has to remember to remain professional by the look he receives from the man sitting behind what would be Mr. Stark’s desk. Smoldering blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, lips drawn into a thin line. Blonde hair that almost seemed to be tussled or even ruffled slightly.   
  
Those eyes meet his own blue ones catching upon his for a moment, and the room is silent. _Oh so silent_. “I presume you’re Mr. Rogers?” There’s a sound of a hitched breath in his throat. And James can feel the color coming to his face, the evident embarrassment evident in his features, or it could have been a blush as the man raises. Revealing a body fit to match the sharp cheekbones and oceanic eyes that aren’t leaving James’s frame at all. Rogers stands, well dressed as much as he is, suit and all but form fitting, and makes his way over, beckoning James to sit by a fireplace in the office. _Classy_.  
  
But none the less he takes a seat, the small notebook in his hands, full of doodles but also stories. It’s hard for him not to fidget when he’s sitting here interviewing people, and not to mention with how this one looks. It’s going to take everything to remain professional. He swallows again, trying to calm his nerves. And the other is nothing, nothing below charming when words escape his mouth.   
  
“You would assume correct. I take it Pepper told you Stark is out on leave for a trip?” His voice is smooth and fluid and right to the point.   
  
“Yes, she mentioned that. But none the less interviews are interviews.” His voice is light, polite, refrained and quiet in the silence that is the office. And the interview goes as planned the questions mostly aimed towards Stark, so things don’t get all that personal, not until after he’s wrapping up, not until after he’s done. When James is about to stand. When he’s about to leave, and head out so he can get together with an editor to write this paper to get paid. When he’s ready to stand a question is thrown towards him. A question that shouldn’t be asked, that shouldn’t even be there.  
  
“But what are your interests?” He almost at once freezes at the question, eyes transfixed at the other man. Transfixed on Mr. Rogers as he’s been told. Despite the interview and the man wanting to call him by the name of Steve, James remains professional. He always has or at least tried to remain that way. Azure eyes staring frozen at the man, a look that remains one of mixed feelings. Confliction evident in his eyes, confliction because he cannot let something happen like this again. Even though the last ride, had been willing maters on both sides, he won’t survive another game like this. And it’s event by the way that he trembles, the way that he breathes out, the way that he moves, that he cannot do this again. He can’t afford to start over and move again. James cannot afford for things to get like they were again.   
  
“I’m really not all that interesting. Trust me on that.”   
  
“One could argue that, I think you’re here not because you want to be, but because you have to be.” James lips pull into a thin line at the man. Fingers moving to rest on his own leg, fingers placing the notebook on his lap. Eyes staring at the other man. “And what makes you even think you know me?” Lips curve into a tilted smile from the other. It would have been charming if James’s skin wasn’t crawling right about now. If it wasn’t for the fact this was in a business office, and that things really shouldn’t be going like this right now.  
  
“Doddles on your notebook, the way you fidget. There’s more to you Barnes. Much more to you than just a reporter. The question is will you tell me some of your story?” Another breath leaves his lungs, and he feels like he’s struggling for air. Struggling in a sense that he’s used all of his up in a room, and he finds it hard to talk. He has to close his eyes to try to calm himself. The reminder of a ghost of a touch that once took place in office halls.  
  
“It doesn’t concern you.” This isn’t the time or place to talk about that lifestyle. It doesn’t matter. James swallows again once more, eyes fluttering open, but none the less the color looks drained on his features. He looks like he had seen something behind his eyes. He looks like he had seen something that he regrets or even there’s something that leaves the other wondering. None the less though he raises not able to stay any longer. James speaks once more eyes glancing over towards Rogers.  
  
“Thank you for your cooperation. Now if you excuse me.” There’s a pause that is for seconds before the other speaks. Before Rogers ends up talking, his fingers almost smooth withdrawing a small card, a number. A personal number that makes James’s skin crawl. The reasons behind the number are unknown, and why a man of this rank of power would choose to give him that, but he does. He does place it into James’s fingers. And the slight mere brushing, the tiny movement of the fingers brushing against the pad of his hand makes him shiver. It’s as if the electric current passed through his fingertips, the buzz that races through his skin is one that leaves his heart beating and his mind racing, the single touch leaves a wake of awaken nerves. And it scares the living hell out of him- because the last time this happened he ended up in the Red Rooms of a Hydra cooperative, and on his knees. It’s a jolt of reality in that touch, and the fiery eyes seem to be almost amused towards his reaction. And the withdrawal of his fingertips from the other’s hand as he takes the card, blood racing still. And that haunting smirk that is perched on Roger’s features, and he turns away before the other can read his reactions.   
  
Before anything can be said.   
  
That night he goes home and paints. Splashes of red and brilliant shades of scarlet and purples across a canvas board that stain his fingers, his bare body, everything. Paint sticks and gets everywhere. And flashes of memory echo in his mind. Hot fingers dragging across skin, the familiar touch, craving under the surface. The electric burning current that laces in his heart, and mind. The drug that was sex, the pleasure that came with pain.   
  
The echoed memory of the whip striking across his back and leaving scars that left him bleeding and trembling, but his voice crying out at least for more. The jarring memory makes its way onto the page onto the board. Tainted with the darkened colors against the black that makes them almost seem to pop, the heavy colors swirling across the canvas. And he’s shaking, near trembling when he finishes the piece, colors heavy and nothing about the picture is light it’s darker desires.   
  
He closes his eyes, and wants to throw the number out, but instead his fingers dial on his cell phone and let the phone ring.   
 

                       Breath hitching when the phone is answered.  
                                                                                           

                                                                                            “It took you long enough.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s funny the way things work out in your mind compared to reality. The fumbling of words isn’t really funny, not when it’s reality at least. The way that words flatter and halt on your tongue, the way that reality works is much different than how you imagine it in your mindset, the way that you think of how to react. And that explains why James is fumbling for words – trying to talk and having difficulties with doing so. It had been simpler almost when he had been face to face with Rogers in the office compared to now. Hell it had been easier in the Hydra offices considering all things.

And he has to exhale once more, trying to remember the words he had been thinking of, the things he had wanted to say when he had been hitting a canvas board with paint. James none the less holds the phone to his ear, an exhale leaving his breath, he can hear the “hello” from the other end and he’s still trying to form words. A simple “Hey.” Escaping him into the phone.

“What made you change your mind and want to talk?” Rogers is polite he’ll give him that. “People change their minds, maybe I was just bored and wanted to talk to someone.”

His freehand grabs at a blank paintbrush and dabs it into a faint blue color. Ears listening to the other, even as he works in his apartment, and god knows what time it is, but what matters is that he answered. “Well not exactly bored, but I figured I should at least give you a chance.” James drags the brush across the board, painting it a blue color- the same color of his own eyes, and of Rogers. There’s a rich laughter that escapes the other, sounding almost amused by the other.  
  
“Bet it’s better than what I’m doing at least, I’m sitting here finishing some of Stark’s paperwork at my apartment.” James shifts the phone on his ear, fingers smearing the blue watercolor across his fingers, staining them the light shade, the paint cool across his fingers. “You weren’t exactly wrong, I’m an artist. I just lacked inspiration for a long time. It comes in spurts.” He sets his phone down on the desk on the stand but throws it onto to speaker so he can paint more freely. “You got me in the middle of painting a second drawing. I finished the one I was having problems on.” James replies to him, fingers smearing the paint further, and he can feel some of the charcoal lines on this one blurring on his fingers. He finds it easier to paint this way, much easier and he finds a rhythm and doesn’t stutter as much talking now.  
  
“You sound pleased with yourself. Any certain subject your paintings are based on?”  
  
It’s more of a personal question, and one that James doesn’t get asked often, because most people are in awe of the drawings and tend to refrain from asking him about them. He has to glance over at the black canvas board, a brief glance glancing over the board that has the outline of his own frame colored in shades and hues of reds, purples and almost a soft pink. “Life experiences.” He doesn’t go into detail of them just yet. 

“Of?” 

“Things that you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Try me.” His cheeks go slightly red, at the words. Fingers dragging across the paint again trying to focus on the rough sensation across the skin. Because sexual pleasures aren’t something you just mention to a stranger. You don’t just mention things like this, but yet, yet the conversation doesn’t feel awkward or out of place. 

It had been much different in the Red Rooms, back when he had no clue what he was getting into at all. “Sex.”

There’s a pause when the word is breathed out, a small hitch of breath and the movement of his hands across paper again. “What kind?”   
  
That is the question that James wasn’t expecting the other to ask at all. The mere fact that Rogers- that Steve is still listening says something about him, which he can’t exactly place at all. He cannot place at all, and James pauses painting setting the brush down to speak clearly. “It depends what you mean by that, it’s an artform in itself really, seeing someone come undone. Seeing people at moments that no one else can, undoing what society sees in you and creating something that feels as if you’re in your own little world. When a person has you wrapped around their fingers.”   
  
The way that he actually talks about sex is much different than a typical person. He’s completely comfortable on talking about kinks, describing sex, it’s perfectly normal to him. It’s like describing art, its second nature to him. Completely second nature to him. There are no boundaries or thin lines, and often times that’s what has led to him hooking up with people numerous times, because he is so at ease with things. He falls into patterns that are so normal around the topic that most flutter away or are even repulsed or ashamed with the desires and needs that are brought up by how he talks about it. 

“I mean what do you look for James?” There’s a pause as he gathers his thoughts. It’s been awhile since someone asked him that exact question.  
  
“Control,” There’s a pause. “Pain.” Another pause followed by that word. “Submission.” There’s a hitching of noise on the other side of the line. “The balance between those three things can be a beautiful thing that can leave someone trembling or even shaking at the palms of your hands. It can leave them quaking with desires they only saw in their dreams or fantasized about in their own minds. The pleasure that the pain creates, the way that blood pools across the surface, the way that people fall apart under others hands. Tell me, have you ever felt that? Have you ever made someone come undone in the best and worst ways?”   
  
“I think, that you should come meet me at my apartment.”   
  
The words make his breath hitch all over again, and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. And he should say no, he should walk away from this, but it’s been too long. It’s been too long since the men at Hydra touched him, and he has a feeling a dead set feeling that this man. That Steve can give him as much as Crossbones gave him when they had been dating.  
  
                             “What time?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Improper use of Russian, if someone speaks it and would like to correct it, by all means do so. Flashback chapter, and slight porn or nsfw. I also apologize for any errors, this was unbetaed. )

It had been cold in Russia. Much colder there than it ever had been in America. The time he spent in Russia had made him whom he was, in more than one sense. But also in that time period in Russia he had learned a type of secretly that had made him keep certain aspects of him under wraps and hidden from people’s view. He had learned to hide pieces of himself, only reserved for the people that undid him. And the ways it happened varied. It had been a long winter. Three years ago. It had been a very long winter. James had been an import student in Russia studying aboard, he had chosen to do schooling there and had fallen into place among the people there. He had started to work for a company deemed Hydra almost as soon as he had transferred over there. And that is where he had found parts of himself, which were darker, and were almost feral.   
  
There were things that happened in Russia that he never spoke about, that he never once had spoken to anyone about. And it was deemed better that way it really was. But coming to stand, this wasn’t the current James we are looking at, no, we were looking at the man that was only shy of nineteen. Coming into an establishment that was almost like a whore house but not quiet, there was much better class, much better than a whorehouse. But also there were rules, guidelines, and things outlining rules on what people could and couldn’t do. And James had been tugged along into that type of place when he had been nineteen with a coworker that had charmed him. Sharp cheekbones, a charming laugh and smile. And eyes. Eyes that were controlling but also entranced people like a moth to a flame. And James of course had fallen into the flames of that tiger that had sprung that trap, and he had done it willingly and been drawn into another side of Hydra. Also a snake, and that it was, stunning its prey with a poison that couldn’t be matched.   
  
And of course that bastard of a man, what most called him for his cold heart and ruthless demeanor had taken it upon himself to loop a chain through a d-ring and attached that to a collar around the said nineteen year olds neck. But James had been so naïve, in more than one sense, he didn’t know the games that these men played. He didn’t know the feeling of sexual submission, no not yet. There were fingers ranking through his brunette locks. Easing through the hair like it was water or even silk. Fingers smoothing and pressing over the skin, the hairline that was underneath the locks of hair. The soft noises that escaped his lips at the pressing upon his forehead, the fingers slipping and easing across the skin as if it was nothing. The soft exhale and echo that he gave at the lingering caress that felt like a gentle lover’s touch.   
  
The way that he was petted and touched almost like an animal. The men held a gentle reserve towards his skin and hair. Treating him like a pet, it was almost nice- almost soothing. And that perhaps was the first warning sign that should have been. He could hear the small words of Russian being whispered to him. “Расслабиться, отдохнуть. (Relax, Relax)” And his body seemed to sooth and go limp the more they touched him, easing him into a state that almost felt like a high. He could barely remember the bits of the shows or at least the performances that he saw. The pornographic images bringing a scarlet blush to his features, the evident burning in his skin, but the man didn’t want his hands wandering there, no. He petted him like a small cat, and James at his side made these small noises that he fell into making for him. And he ended up on Rumlow’s (as the other men called him that here), lap.  
  
The fingers rubbing small circles across his skin, ensnarling a type of heat into his veins that felt like liquid fire. James was by no means a virgin, no, Natalia had been one of his first people he had been with. That much he had done right, but with the likes of men, Rumlow had been the one that had popped that bubble at least once before taking him here. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the touch linger across his skin. The fingers lingering across his skin almost gentle, a caress that feels far too angelic for a place like this. It’s like silk or honey to be honest the way that the men are treating him. James even seems to go limp under the touch and feel of the fingers ranking across his skin. The simple feel of the fingers and hands across his flesh not only makes him feel at ease but he is comfortable. He had been unsure at first what exactly Brock had in mind when he had brought him here. And he can feel the blood rushing under his skin, the steady thump of his own heart. The way his heart rattles and the way that he breathes out. The rush of air that escapes him, when fingers brush across the skin of his neck that leaves a trail of pricked skin it its wake.   
  
The steady flush on cheekbones that darkens, lips exhaling in a rush. The steady shifting of movement, and the way that he tilts his head to let Rumlow’s fingers wander further. Lips are steady across the skin. Following the brush of digits across fingers, leaving a wake like flames behind. The steady heat pooling in the base of his stomach, his own whispered flushed words of Russian shot at the other. “Не здесь, любовь” (Not, here love.) But the words seem to die on his lips strangled when a bite occurs, teeth catching hold of the tender flesh on his collarbone. The tender flesh that the teeth sink into, marring a bruise into the flesh. A blooming of color escaping onto the skin, the faint pink becoming a brightened red. A wheeze of breath leaving his lungs, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Because there are people here, there are people that could be seeing his reactions.   
  
Seeing the noises he makes, seeing the way that James reacts. And for some reason that makes the fire in his gut grow, and smolder. And a sense of nostalgia settles into his frame like he’s played this game before. James has to resist the urge not to squirm when he feels different callous fingers settle into his hair. And Russian words that he’s not familiar with are spoken, but he understands enough to realize they are talking about him, and complimenting him. The man is a thinner blonde, older than Brock it seems by a lot. If James had to guess, he had to be in mid-thirties, and the way he talks is controlled and refined. Like a venomous snake, and it seems like the man is ready to strike at any time. The fingers rank across his scalp soothing across the skin it almost seems. The gentle pressure at first, like Rumlow’s fingers but it turns into a rougher pressure one that almost borderlines tugging at the strands. James seems to choke on a breath at the touches settling across his hairline, the small tugs sending jolts across his body. And the worst thing is this is a stranger, a total stranger.   
  
That’s touching him in places that he’s familiar with Brock. He has to close his eyes again because he feels the steady flush flaming across his features. He should have said no. He doesn’t belong here. Not to mention his body is overheating with a desire that he hasn’t felt this strong since he laid Natalia between the sheets and pleasured her till her voice had gone hoarse that night. It’s been a long time since touches like this have rattled his bones, and have created goose-bumps across his skin. But the fingers are still moving across his skin, they’re still touching his skin, ranking over marks formed by Brock’s teeth, and he shivers, his body shivers. Under both the touch and gaze. He damn well knows, he shouldn’t be this turned on by the sort of events that are happening here. But he is. The fact of the matter is, he’s feeling the warm desire and the warm heat in his bones. That causes an ache the pools under his skin, and makes him have his breath leave him in a rush. The fire in the bones is not something that can be simply be quenched by simple touched across the skin like this, no matter how many he receives, it adds to the pleasure pooling within him. James has to resist from touching the fingers across his head that are pulling his head sharply upwards enough that he lets out a soft whimper from pale pink lips.  
  
His head tilted back at an angle that shows the lines of his collarbone, the sharp contrast of skin and bone. The way that his head moves is like a delicate art, the simple movement fluid but also jarring, leaving him under the gaze of eyes. That sweep over the lines of his body pulled backwards to be played upon and with. He shudders again when the fingers in his hair tighten and tug his head move to an angel. Exposing the rough bruises across his collarbone and neckline. James pupils dilate at the contact. And he breathes outward once more. The steady thump of his heart racing under his skin, the way that the blood pumps from being touched this way. The sweeping movement of the fingers grabbing upon his hair, seize for stilled moments. The rough touch leaving but it leaves him winded and craving more than what he should. And the marring bites that are across his skin from Brock’s skin are ever growing. The curve of Brock’s tongue fits across his skin like a lost puzzle piece, it slips into place marring and lapping at the bruised skin that’s blooming with color. He wheezes out a breath, eyes fluttering closed for moment once more. At the sharp lapping of a bite, the squirming beneath his skin evident. The ever growing fire that strikes across his bones and makes his skin crawl. It makes him crave, it makes his hues of blue darken with a riddled desire that heats every part of his frame that leaves him feeling almost suffocated. Brock’s teeth move from the purchase of his collarbone, eyes staring at the marks that he’s created and then briefly at James’s eyes.   
  
“Он красивый.” (He’s beautiful.) The words are soft spoken from the blonde that’s been touching his hair and watching his movements. He’s more controlled and poised compared to Brock, much more controlled in movements and touching. The evidence of age difference is there, its visible by the way moves and touches him, but James also has a feeling he’s used to playing around with sessions here with people.   
  
"Разве это не так? Я хочу, чтобы обучать его." (He is isn’t he? I want to train him.) The flush that raises to James’s face is evident by the words that leaves Brock’s mouth. He knew that those words were bound to come out of his mouth, he knew. Considering that was the reason he was brought to such a place, to get him exposed to matters such as this. And Brock’s fingers sooth over his skin once more as if to reassure him, hey it’s alright. Brock pauses for a moment to ask him.  
  
"Ты в порядке любовь?" (Are you alright love?) James nods in return, he nods because his words come out rattled and a little strangled, and the embarrassment is evident on his features. This is playing with fire. These types of desires are playing with fire, a different type of fire that James has experienced very with unlike the pair of them.   
  
“Safeword?" It’s the first lick of English he’s heard in a while from anyone. And James has to pause for a moment to remember a translation between his word and Russian. His tongue still feeling tied, and the heat flaring within his bones. It feels like it’s going to smote him all over. James none the less however gives a quite answer, one that was talked about days before in the company of Brock alone. “Актив.” (Asset) It’s an abnormal word. One that has nothing to do with his upbringing or his home. The word in a literal sense at least when translated from English to Russian also means property besides asset. It’s a word that has a number of double meanings, and it also means that he’s giving in. That he’s letting them take control, and he’s not going to be thinking that much when they do this. When he does sessions or lets anyone this close in, there’s a level of trust. A deep level of trust that connects him and the person, sometimes it’s an accident that he trusts someone this well with things such as this. He lets another breath escape him, steady exhale despite the rapid beating of his heart and the fact that it fees so loud to him.   
  
Breathe. Breathe. Brock would never let any harm come to you. Never. He of course would be regretting that thought much later, but he didn’t know that. He didn’t know that at all. None the less though, he breathes out through his lungs, feeling fingers thread through his hair for a moment from the blonde once more. The touch again far too gentle for a man that seems to have more experience. "Давайте начнем. Зима" (Let’s begin winter.) Again, another thing James had agreed on. His real name was not to be used by anyone. He wanted no personal attachments to matters like this unless it was just Brock with him, unless it was just the two of them. His fingers are tugged by the blonde’s pulled forward by him.   
  
Lead away from Brock’s mouth, and it’s putting his fate into a stranger’s hand. He knows Brock approved of this, but for now, for now he’s lead astray with the stranger. Movements across the floor soft, lead into one of the backrooms. One more or less reserved for planned events, considering all things. The stranger’s fingers rubbing small circles across his knuckles, as if to calm his anxiety or any nervousness in his being. Blue eyes flicker back upon the other, watching his reflexive reactions to things, the way that he reacts, and responds.   
  
  
“Первый раз делать что-то об этом?” (First time doing something like this?) It’s a question. A simple question. It like a game to him, to be honest. Give and take, answer and respond. It’s like a dog answering to its master. The rules, he always follows no matter what they do to his body. The way that he’s bent or begging. The way that his voice has cracked sometimes doing smaller scenes or such with Brock. “No, "Я был с несколькими другими." (No, I’ve been with a few others.) The blonde shifts again, eyes looking at the other’s frame, watching the movements of him. Watching his body, watching the way that he flushes under his gaze the way that he reacts. He’s always watching everything, when there’s a new one playing the game.   
  
“Somehow, Crossbones, always does pick out good sluts. It really isn’t a surprise. Undress.” It’s the first command thrown at him. And James, he can feel the way that his body prickles under the skin for the desire to be touched or such but promptly ignores it. He ignores it for a number of reasons. As he pulls at the clothing on his skin, at least he dressed thinly. None the less when he clothing is set onto the bench in the room, he feels over exposed and the air prickles at his warm skin. Calloused fingers touch upon the upper part of his back. He hadn’t even realized that Brock had come back into the room, and he can feel Brock touching at the muscles of his skin. Tracing, making him almost shudder, but he resists movements.   
  
“Such well-mannered. Most would be putting up such a fuss to get what they want by now. But not you. You’re so well trained, and yet here you are asking to be trained even more….” The blonde speaks words controlled and spoken softly. “Tell me, has the burning started under your skin? Have the desires awoken in your mind?” Rumlow’s fingers slide to his lower back, towards his ass and his mouth lets out a small gasp. The evident teasing of the touch sliding under his skin, hair sticking to his face. Mouth open in a slight raggard pant and gasp. He’s sensitive to touch, he always had been when he’s been teased. Brock was setting him up to be responsive when he was taken into the actual backrooms.   
  
“Ah, there it is. You always find pretty ones. The way they respond to touch, or even listen. This one, he’s beautiful you know. He reminds me of Cap almost, when he had taught you.” There’s another hitch and heave of his throat when Rumlow’s hands wander lower and touch upon the flesh of his ass cheek, rubbing at the skin just to tease. And James has to remember not to whine. Whining makes him feel like a cheap whore, it makes him feel like a slut. But then again that’s why he’s here to be that for them.

“That had been a good run, but this one is far prettier. He’s so willing to do whatever he can to please.” Brock answers back, having quiet small talk between that and the blonde who’s eying James’s reactions to everything. The way that James’s body leans back to meet more of Brock’s fingers to touch more of his skin on a level that is impulse and not him thinking about it. Brock’s lips move to the side of his neck again, and James’s cannot stop the gasp that leaves him at the sharp bite that ranks across his skin, and the way his fingers curl at his sides. And his blood runs hot, and the evident pooled desire that is within him. The way the pre-cum is evident across that of his exposed dick. A soft keening whine escaping him, as Brock sucks at the bite.   
  
“It seems he’s quite one for pain, also.” It’s another added statement, which makes his flush more evident, considering the way that he’s more than often fucked. The bruises and bites that normally litter his skin. His head tilts backwards more to expose more of his neck to Brock’s teeth but it’s the moment he gives, that actually shows he’s there and listening to their words. “Not a word from him, I’m surprised. He’s a quiet one.” The blonde remarks, but his own fingers take a dark nipple between his fingertips. Fingers moving to press it between it and roll it in his fingers. Which causes another gasp to escape the other, his mind torn at what he should submit to. His throat producing a low whine from it that proceeds to get louder when the man pinches the nipple between his fingers, and it causes him to gasp again, and almost arch.  
  
Don’t stop. Don’t stop, keep touching me. Please. It’s an unbroken thought, an unbroken one of want that is evident. They’re going to undo him, take their sweet time and undo him. Undo him from the very core, and James he’d gladly suck either one of their dicks to get what he wants. And there’s that unhitched mind state, the way that he falls into that place of being a submissive, the way that that he falls under. The fingers pinch the skin of the nipple hard, causing him to jerk forwards. He body arches forward, and that causes a chain of Brock’s teeth that are still biting him in places to sink into his skin harder, and the sharp pain contrasts with the pleasure.  
  
And jesus he feels like the wind was knocked out of him. James wants, he wants to drop to his knees, and he wants to get used. He wants to get abused, he wants things that most cannot give to him. He doesn’t want to think, he wants to be told what to do, and he wants to slip into that state and just listen and not have to worry about anything but pleasing someone.   
  
And those thoughts undo him, they always do. Always, and when Brock’s teeth leave his neck, he sinks to his knees to please like always.


End file.
